“Are you going to answer?” Lena asked, her voice quiet behind me.

“No,” I said. “Let her knock.”

I walked down the grand staircase, my hand sliding along the cold polished mahogany of the banister.

The air in the foyer was drafty, smelling of old wood and the damp storm outside.

A heavy brass knock sounded at the front door, three slow, deliberate strikes.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and pulled the heavy oak door open.

Margaret stood on the threshold, a silver umbrella dripping onto the stone porch.

Her classic beige wool coat was dark with water at the shoulders.

She did not wait for an invitation; she stepped past me into the warmth of the hall.

“Nora,” she said, her voice carrying its usual calculated warmth. “Thank God you are still here.”

She closed her umbrella and set it in the porcelain stand by the door.

“The gates were open,” she said, looking around the dark foyer. “Why are the lights so low?”

“We were just leaving, Margaret,” I said.

Lena walked down the last few steps, her leather briefcase in hand.